


Learning to Speak French

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes tells Watson about his first case and reveals more than just the basic facts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning to Speak French

**Author's Note:**

> I am deeply indebted to beta charlotteyonge for brilliant insight, wonderful enthusiasm, and general awesomeness. And for finding in this story the thread that I couldn’t quite grasp. Thanks also to fitofpique for an early read, great ideas, and a bit of encouragement when I was frustrated with an early draft of this story.

Holmes felt much as he did when he reached for his Moroccan case. Not in his motives, for it was not boredom or idleness that drove him to finally act, although perhaps there was something of the same desperation. No, the similarity was in the awareness that with what he was about to do, he was risking his own obliteration, yet he had no choice but to continue. He crossed the room to where Watson sat, unsuspecting, and tore down the wall of his newspaper.

Watson stared at Holmes in surprise, with both hands up in the air as if still holding the broadsheets. He frowned, suspicious, until Holmes fell to his knees and reached to unbutton Watson’s trousers. Watson paled and his eyes widened, but Holmes gave him no room to escape, gripping his hips with both hands and taking his cock between his lips. Watson responded quickly, stiffening in Holmes’ mouth. His breathing grew loud and irregular, and his hips bucked against Holmes’ restraining hands. There was one strangled cry as he came, but he quickly stifled the noise.

Then Watson gaped down at Holmes, his hands clamped onto the arms of the chair. He was flushed and disheveled, looking as though he had been run down by a stampede but was somehow grateful for it. However, once he caught his breath, he turned his face away. Holmes rose and left the room to spare them both the agonizing awkwardness of speaking to one another.

All the next day, Watson was somewhat quieter than usual, and Holmes perhaps spoke a bit more loudly to compensate, but their relations were otherwise unchanged. However, as the evening dragged on, the silence grew between them until it was a palpable presence, heavy and oppressive, driving Watson from the sitting room.

Once the light in Watson’s room was extinguished, Holmes crept in, locking the door behind him. Watson said Holmes’ name once in the dark, his voice coming out in a tremulous whisper, but after that they did not speak. Afterwards, while Watson was still breathing in gasps, Holmes rose from his knees—legs unsteady, cock aching—and returned to his cold, solitary bed. It took only three quick strokes to bring himself off. He lay in his tangled bedclothes for hours, his mind spinning, until exhaustion finally allowed him to sleep.

Holmes understood Watson well enough to know how he would view their circumstances: he would fear that he was taking advantage, suffer from guilt that he was not prepared to reciprocate. He would not see that Holmes was in fact elated, grateful to be allowed such liberties after having spent so many years curbing his desire and confining his every movement in Watson’s presence.

He also recognized that Watson was unlikely to long tolerate this state of affairs, so when he entered Watson’s room on the third night, he was not surprised to find the lamp lit and Watson fully dressed, seated on the edge of his bed, waiting for Holmes with no small measure of anxiety.

Watson glared, his usually warm gaze steely and, when Holmes took a step forward, simply said, “No.”

Immediately Holmes lowered his eyes and turned to flee, but Watson rose and caught his arm. After a moment’s pause, he smashed their mouths together. He pulled away and stared at Holmes, clearly awaiting a reaction, but Holmes was immobilized. He could not deduce Watson’s thoughts, could not guess what response would be appropriate.

Watson leaned close again. The first time, the press of his lips had been rough, almost angry, but this was a truer kiss—a physical question to which Holmes could not find the answer. He did nothing.

Taking a step back, Watson studied Holmes. His hands shook slightly as he began to unbutton his shirt, then proceeded to peel off every stitch of clothing until he stood naked in the center of the room, all the while meeting Holmes’ gaze with determination. Holmes tried to watch only Watson’s face, but he could not help himself. His eyes slid down, devouring the planes and shadows of Watson’s body. He longed to touch, explore every inch of Watson’s flesh with his fingers and lips and tongue, but he could not make himself move forward. It was Watson who crossed the scant space between them.

Holmes felt Watson’s hands, first at his waist, working at the knot of his dressing gown and his buttons, then leading him to the bed, pulling him down until he was surrounded by the glorious feeling of Watson’s warm skin against his own. Holmes had not been able to look away: Watson’s eyes closed, his mouth slack, lost in passion. And later, lounging in the bed, wrapped around Holmes like a great sleepy cat, all heavy limbs and quiet sighs. Holmes found it difficult fathom how that strong, sprawling frame could ever be contained by tidy waistcoats and tailored trousers.

In the cold light of morning, Watson seemed a different man. He slept on the far side of the bed, curled into himself, facing away from Holmes. He rolled onto his back as he woke, his arm brushing Holmes’ chest. His eyes sprang open, then darted to Holmes’ face before closing again.

Holmes waited.

“I didn’t think you’d stay,” Watson said finally.

His voice was quiet and even, but Holmes thought he detected a hint of satisfaction there as well. He was pleasantly surprised that Holmes had not crept away in the middle of the night.

After a long moment, Watson sat up, and the bedclothes fell to his waist. Holmes’ eyes were drawn across the muscles in his shoulders and back. He lifted one hand, tempted to caress the smooth skin over Watson’s hipbone, which he could just glimpse over the hem of the sheet, but he hesitated, afraid that Watson would rebuff any affectionate overtures. He was further discouraged when Watson turned, a slight scowl on his face. Only then did Holmes realise that he had not responded to Watson’s remark.

Holmes could not think how to answer. Indeed, he found the idea of speaking rather terrifying. It was impossible to reconcile this familiar Watson—retrieving his watch from the bedside table and trying to hide his frown—with the almost aggressively sensual creature Holmes had held in his arms the night before.

Another small shift moved Watson closer to the edge of the bed. He would rise in a moment and prepare for the day. Holmes could not bear the thought of Watson dressing, donning his clothes layer by layer as if nothing had happened. It seemed imperative that Holmes somehow prevent him from leaving the bed, as if he would never have another opportunity to see Watson like this.

“Watson.”

There was a pause before Watson answered. He would rather not talk. When he answered, his cheerfulness was forced. “Yes?”

Holmes was struck with sudden inspiration. “I’d like to tell you about my first case.”

Watson looked over his shoulder at Holmes, surprised. “What, now?”

“Yes, now.”

“I thought—” A faint flush crept up Watson’s neck as he glanced down as his naked chest. “I’ve asked you about your first case a dozen times, and you’ve always changed the subject. Why now?”

“I did not wish to tell only part of the story. I waited until I was certain you would want to hear the entire tale, because, you see, the story of my first case is also the story of my first lover.”

*****

Holmes pushed up onto the balls of his feet, trying to peer into the window, but his feet sank deeper into the damp earth, giving him no advantage. He next attempted to wedge the toe of one boot between the stones of the wall but could not find purchase. Finally he pulled himself up to the windowsill by sheer force of strength and was able to spy the thief. A part of the thief, at any rate—a hand stretching out of the sleeve of a black woolen jacket and pulling a watch out of the top drawer of a highboy. Holmes caught a glimpse of crisp white cuff and a red stone set in a silver cufflink before he let himself drop.

His intent was to catch the culprit leaving the building, but as he took his first steps, a dog barked, startlingly close. Holmes tried to run, but his boots slid on the wet grass. The dog’s teeth clamped onto his ankle, and he fell. He was unable to stifle a cry at the pain of it, but he forced himself to move, to push off the ground. The animal was stubborn. It growled, and its jaw clenched more tightly. Holmes found himself flat on the grass once again.

Light flooded over the lawn, and Holmes heard shouting. The dog was pulled off of his leg and began to bark viciously. Staggering to his feet, Holmes attempted once again to run, but he was stopped by a pair of strong hands on his shoulders.

“Stop! Stop now. He won’t hurt you again,” a voice yelled close to Holmes’ ear. “Wellington! No!”

The dog was silent for a moment before bursting into another fit of angry noise. Holmes looked at the man holding him. He was much the same height as Holmes, but his build was considerably larger. If he were an inexperienced fighter, Holmes could likely best him, but if he knew how to handle himself, the extra weight would work to his advantage. There were two other young men nearby as well, holding the dog between them. Holmes decided not to try and force his way free.

“Wellington!” the man shouted again, and the dog whined, then quieted completely. It did not bark again but glared at Holmes with unnerving ferocity.

Shaken, Holmes allowed himself to be dragged toward the bright light, through the door, and into a suite of rooms. The shouter pushed him gently onto a sofa while the other two students shut the dog behind an inner door, where it resumed barking loudly. One repetition of its name was enough to silence it this time, and then the shouter sent the others in search of a doctor. “No,” Holmes gasped out. “I don’t need—”

“You absolutely do need a doctor,” the shouter said. “Oh, no, look what he’s done to you.”

Holmes looked down at his leg. The leather of his boot was ripped apart, and blood was dripping off his heel onto the carpet. “Good God,” the young man said. He sank onto a footstool and put his head in his hands. “He’s never bitten anyone. I swear it.”

The litany continued the entire time they waited for the physician, apology after explanation after apology. Holmes closed his eyes and did not bother to listen. Now that his excitement had faded, he could feel a throbbing pain in his leg and ankle.

When the doctor came, he sewed up and bandaged Holmes’ injury, recommending that he rest the leg for a fortnight. It seemed an excessively long time, and at Holmes’ protest, the period was shortened to ten days, but the orders were strict that Holmes was to remain in his rooms for that period.

When the doctor stood to leave, he set a medicine bottle on the table. The shouter picked it up and slid it into his pocket before leaning over to pull Holmes up off the sofa.

“Let’s get you back to your rooms,” he said.

“I am perfectly able to walk,” Holmes insisted and was pleased when putting weight on the leg resulted in only minimal discomfort.

The shouter backed away, but when Holmes took a step, he found moving to be much more difficult than simply standing. As the muscles and tendons in his ankle shifted and stretched, fiery threads of pain shot through his leg. Even when he froze and the pain subsided, it left behind a tingling throb, and the stitches pulled at his skin. It was a sickening sensation.

“Whoa, there,” the shouter said as he grabbed Holmes to keep him from falling. He pulled one of Holmes’ arms over his shoulders to half carry him out the door.

The air outside was chilly. Holmes’ clothes and hair were damp with perspiration, and he began to shiver. The shouter turned his head and looked at Holmes in concern, but he did not comment, asking only for direction to Holmes’ rooms.

“In the…” Holmes’ head spun. He was certain he would fall if not supported.

“Where?”

“Ground floor,” Holmes said, gesturing at his dormitory across the green. “East corridor.”

In spite of these vague instructions, they progressed quickly to Holmes’ door. He slumped against the wall, exhausted, as the shouter took the key out of his hand and opened the lock. Holmes pushed away from the wall. His limbs were trembling, and he faltered. Immediately the shouter was there with a steadying hand, and when it became evident that this support was not sufficient, he lifted Holmes completely off the floor and carried him into the room.

Holmes wanted to protest, indignant at being toted around like a child, but he held his tongue. He was not at all certain he could have managed the last few feet and had to be grateful for the help, however humiliating it might be.

“Why on earth did you leave all the lamps on?” the shouter asked as he deposited Holmes on the sofa.

Holmes had wanted to make it appear that his rooms were occupied, as usual, so before creeping out he had closed the curtains and left the lights blazing. “I must have forgotten,” he lied.

The shouter noticed that Holmes was struggling to remove his remaining boot and rushed to help. He slid the boot off Holmes’ foot much more gently than the doctor had removed its mate, and once Holmes had reclined onto the pillows, he pulled the medicine bottle out of his jacket pocket.

“Shall I prepare some of this for you? It might make you more comfortable.”

Holmes simply wanted to be left alone, but he nodded, then watched as the medicine was measured out for him. It was fortunate that someone had paid attention to the dosage instructions, for Holmes had not absorbed anything the doctor had said. He swallowed the foul-tasting mixture in two gulps and fell back onto the sofa.

“Shall I help you into bed?”

Holmes opened his eyes, surprised that the shouter was still in the room, then shook his head. His eyes fell closed once more.

“I’ll…. I’ll go then, I suppose.”

There was no movement in the room, so Holmes looked up. He noticed how very blue the young man’s eyes were, and how mournful his expression.

“I’m more sorry than I can say,” he said. “If I can do anything to help—”

Holmes shook his head again.

“All right then. Good night. Don’t hesitate to send for me.”

Holmes heard footsteps, but his overenthusiastic helper did not depart. Instead he went into the adjoining bedroom and returned with a blanket, which he draped over Holmes carefully. Finally the door closed, the latch clicked, and Holmes was alone. The pain was much worse now, and Holmes wondered how long it would be before the drug took effect and to what level it might dull the pain. It would be a very long night if the aching throb in his leg did not lessen.

Suddenly Holmes remembered his success earlier in the evening, and for a moment his discomfort was forgotten. He had seen the thief. His instincts had been correct: Thomas Carter, the young servant arrested for the thefts that had plagued the college in recent weeks, was innocent. True, that damned dog had prevented Holmes from stopping the theft, but at least he had a few clues that might now guide him to the true culprit.

The drug began to cloud Holmes’ mind, and his attempts to focus his thoughts were in vain. It was not altogether unpleasant, however. The pain receded. Holmes felt almost as if he were floating. He slid from this state into a deep and dreamless sleep.

*****

There were three large cracks in the ceiling of Holmes’ room. He passed the morning plotting out their probable course if the plaster were to continue to separate. During the interminable ten days’ time for which he was confined to his room, he would have ample time to watch the progress of these cracks, and if he were lucky the ceiling would fall down and put him out of his misery. He considered moving the sofa so that his head would be centered under the section most likely to fall first.

A knock at the door offered hope of some less dramatic end to his boredom. He leapt to his feet, unmindful of his injury, and winced when he rested his weight on his ankle, which sent searing pain throughout his entire leg. He hobbled to the door.

Waiting in the corridor was the shouter. “I came to see how you’re feeling,” he said.

When Holmes did not answer, the he frowned and chewed at the inside of his lip. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he continued. “I just wanted to look in on you… to see if you needed anything.”

Holmes shook his head, noticing again the intense blue of the young man’s eyes.

“All right then. Take care.”

Holmes watched him walk down the corridor and around the corner. Holmes could not imagine why the shouter had called. Perhaps he was concerned that Holmes would report him to the school authorities for housing a vicious dog on the premises. The thought was uncharitable, Holmes decided, but he was surprised the man had come.

When a knock sounded on the door the next day, Holmes knew immediately who it must be. He quickly made his way across the room—he had become proficient at hopping about on one foot without jarring his injured leg too painfully.

The shouter stood outside the door with a shy smile on his face. “Good afternoon,” he said, holding out a dark wooden walking stick. “I thought this might be of service.”

After a pause, Holmes reached out and took the cane, but he could not think of anything to say. The young man’s gaze shifted away, and he cleared his throat. “Might I come in for a moment?”

Holmes hesitated, but nodded and hopped backward before he remembered the walking stick. He lowered it to the floor and leaned on it, pleased to discover that it carried enough of his weight to allow him a more dignified return to his sofa.

“How are you feeling?”

Holmes frowned, looking down at his foot. The bandages around his ankle made it appear more grossly swollen than it actually was.

“I’m so very sorry,” the young man said as he came to stand a few feet away. “I never let Wellington out without his lead, but he made his escape when an acquaintance came into my rooms, and we simply weren’t fast enough to catch him.”

Though he tried to make his expression neutral, Holmes knew he was still scowling. He took a deep breath and forced a more polite mask.

“Are you never going to speak to me? I did say I was sorry.” The look the shouter gave Holmes was sad, pleading, then after a moment his expression changed, breaking into a hopeful smile. It was clear he was accustomed to being thought charming.

Holmes decided it would be unfair to reject this fellow’s genuine effort to apologize. He would suspend his judgment, but he would feel himself ridiculous if he were immediately gracious and open. He looked at his visitor, frowning slightly, and said, “We haven’t even been introduced.”

The small smile widened into a beaming grin. “Trevor,” he said with an exaggeratedly formal bow. “Victor Trevor.”

“Holmes. Sherlock—”

“I know,” Trevor interrupted. “I make it a point to discover the names of everyone my dog bites.”

“I seem to recall you saying he’d never bitten anyone before.”

“True, but I did learn your name.”

*****

On the third visit Trevor brought a small stack of novels, staying long enough to sit down and give Holmes a synopsis of each. When he arrived the following day, he did not knock to announce his arrival but instead opened the door himself and called in for permission to enter.

“I thought I’d save you getting up,” he said as he stepped into the room. “We’ve come to apologize.” His devil of a dog followed him, trotting into the room and heading straight toward Holmes before being stopped short by its lead.

Holmes sat up on the sofa and inched away from the edge. “It’s not at all necessary. He was following his own monstrous instincts, I’m sure. He’s not to be blamed.”

Trevor laughed. “He’s not a monster, not usually. He’s a complete gentleman most of the time. Come now, let me introduce you properly. This is Wellington.”

Still distrustful, Holmes was careful not to venture any of his extremities too far from his body and held very still while the animal sniffed at his trouser leg.

“There, you see?” Trevor said in a jovial tone. “He wants to make friends.”

“Perhaps he simply wants another taste,” Holmes countered, tucking his foot back up onto the cushions out of the dog’s reach. Wellington curled up on the rug, and Trevor dropped the lead, perching next to Holmes’ legs at the end of the sofa.

*****

“Holmes,” Watson interrupted. “Do you mean after his dog ravaged you, he called, said he was sorry, and you immediately befriended him?”

“No, not so quickly as all that. But he did apologize most sincerely. And he was persistent.”

Watson breathed out a small huff of air, then said under his breath. “Annoying so, it seems.”

Holmes would not have thought that Watson would be the sort to be jealous, not over something like this. It was completely illogical that Watson would be bothered by Holmes having a friend many years before they had even met, but it was gratifying just the same. Holmes could not resist pressing the issue. “Oh, believe me, he was charming. Difficult to resist, though I did not make his progress easy.”

“And you didn’t see what he was up to?”

“Whatever do you mean?” “That he wanted to seduce you.”

Holmes made a dismissive noise.

“You don’t think that’s what he was after?” When Holmes did not answer, Watson continued, growing more heated with each moment. “If he had been there only to apologize, or out of some sense of duty, one visit would have been enough. Perhaps two. No, this was a campaign.”

Holmes hid his smile.

*****

When Trevor entered, Holmes was standing by the window with a cigarette, his attention absorbed by a book.

“Look at you!” Trevor said with a smile. “You’re recovering beautifully.”

“Yes,” Holmes answered over his shoulder. “The leg has been perfectly sound for days.” He turned and held out his cigarette case to Trevor, who shook his head and sank onto the sofa.

“Now that I’m no longer a convalescent,” Holmes said quietly as he sat down next to Trevor. “You needn’t keep looking in on me if it’s not convenient.”

Trevor looked surprised. Forcing a smile, he cuffed Holmes’ knee. “Tired of my company already, are you?”

“Not at all,” Holmes said.

“Good,” Trevor answered, laying back on the cushions behind him. “Then if you don’t mind, I’ll continue ‘looking in on you.’ It’s become rather a habit, and it’s not as though I have a lot of other company.”

“What do you mean? You’re the sort who’s always—”

“It’s not that they won’t have me,” Trevor interrupted, his voice filled with dry humour. “I won’t have _them_.”

Holmes knew it was ridiculous to feel flattered that Trevor was pursuing their acquaintance, but he could not stop himself. He lit another cigarette and said, in the most cavalier attitude he could muster, “So you set your dog on me to catch yourself a friend?”

“Set my—?” Trevor said, his voice and his eyebrows equally raised. “It wasn’t _my_ fault! If you hadn’t been creeping about, Wellington wouldn’t have been after you. What on earth were you doing under those windows?”

“I was going down to chapel.” It was the lie Holmes had prepared in case he were caught where he ought not be.

Trevor laughed. “I’ve not seen you once in chapel since the beginning of the term.”

This was a puzzling remark. They had not been acquainted at the start of the term. Why would Trevor have missed him at chapel?

When Holmes did not answer, Trevor prompted him. “Truly, what were you doing out there that night?”

Studying Trevor’s expression, open, friendly, and curious, Holmes was sorely tempted to tell the truth.

“I know why you were there.” Trevor’s voice turned teasing. “It was some kind of rendezvous, wasn’t it? An assignation with one of the laundry maids, or—”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Holmes said. “I was looking for the thief.”

Trevor’s mouth hung open for a moment in surprise. “What on earth do you mean?”

“The thief! Clayworth’s watch, Mitchell’s tie pin—”

“Yes, yes. Of course I heard about all of that, but what does it have to do with—”

“I mean to catch him.”

Trevor only stared. Then he broke into a laugh, “You can’t be serious.”

When Holmes remained unsmiling, Trevor stopped laughing and looked confused. “But Holmes, why—”

“Clayworth’s watch was stolen precisely one week after Mitchell’s pin. A week after that I overheard James Morris telling Tom Garrett that someone had broken into his rooms as well.”

“Why did he not—?”

“The stolen item was an engagement ring. Morris has not reported the theft to the police because he does not wish for his lady to discover his intentions as of yet,” Holmes explained. “The night your dog bit me marked a full week after the theft of Morris’ ring. I had hoped I might be able to find the culprit, maybe even stop him.”

“But I thought they caught the man,” Trevor said. “It was a servant—”

“Yes, Thomas Carter. He is innocent.”

Trevor cocked his head. “And how do you know that?”

“My own man, Hayes, is great friends with Carter. He swears they were together on each of the nights in question.”

“And you think he’s telling the truth?”

“I’ve never known Hayes to be anything but honest, and I see no reason for him to lie in this case.”

“You said Carter is his friend,” Trevor pointed out.

“What of it?”

“You don’t think he’d lie to help his friend?”

Holmes paused. “Would you, if you were in his place?”

“I would.” Trevor said it bravely, but he looked at Holmes as if nervous that he would disapprove.

A hint of a smile from Holmes made Trevor’s face relax, and Holmes continued. “Even if we suppose that Hayes is lying, there is nothing to implicate Carter. On the night in question, I witnessed the theft of a pocket watch. The thief wore a black dinner jacket and a rather distinctive cufflink with a large red stone—hardly something a servant would wear.”

Trevor was quiet a moment, thinking.

“I believe our thief is in debt,” Holmes said. “He pawns what he steals in time to make his weekly payments.”

“Do you really think you can catch him? You don’t have anything to go on.”

“I saw him with my own eyes! The cufflink, the quality of the clothing.” Holmes was unconcerned by Trevor’s doubts. “And he wasted no time searching for that watch—he knew precisely where to look. Our thief is someone who knows those rooms.”

“A student then?”

“I’m certain of it.”

Trevor’s frown had deepened until there was a small, vertical line between his eyebrows. Then he must have forced all thoughts of the crimes out of his head, because his face cleared. “Never mind all that. I’ve come to fetch you.”

“What on earth for?”

“It’s a beautiful day.”

Holmes looked to the window. “It seems rather windy.”

Trevor ignored him. “You must be going mad, all shut up inside like this. I thought I could help you make your way outside, but now I see you can walk on your own.” “I’m no invalid. You needn’t take me out for an airing.”

It took some coaxing on Trevor’s part, but Holmes finally agreed to the plan, although he would not leave his book behind. They sat on the grass, Trevor leaning back on his hands, his legs stretched out in front of him. Holmes sat cross-legged next him and immediately stuck his nose back into his book.

“Holmes.”

“Hm.”

“ _Holmes_.”

“Yes, yes,” Holmes answered. When he glanced over at Trevor, he seemed anxious and would not meet Holmes’ eye. He cleared his throat.

“Well…”

Holmes was distracted by the breeze. He had many scraps of paper, full of scribbled notes, tucked into his book, and they were in danger of being dislodged. “Out with it,” he scolded.

“Might I beg a favor?”

“Trevor, for heaven’s sake—”

“I was wondering if I might beg your help with my French,” Trevor finally blurted out.

The request made Holmes pause. Not that he was surprised that Trevor might require a French tutor, for his grasp of the language was disgraceful. It was Trevor’s manner that was puzzling. Holmes would have thought that Trevor was embarrassed to ask for assistance with his studies, but just the day before he had asked for Holmes to correct his geometry proofs without the slightest hint of awkwardness.

Trevor’s voice wavered when he spoke again. “You speak like a native, I hear.” “I can certainly help if you like,” Holmes answered. “I must remind you, however, that I am not a patient teacher.”

Trevor grinned. “I don’t mind. You might need to be stern to get verb tenses through my thick skull.”

At that moment a gust of wind blew several papers out of Holmes’ book and sent them skittering across the grass. Holmes paused to carefully close the book and wrap it in his coat to preserve what was left of his notes, and by the time he stood, Trevor had already gathered most of the scattered pages.

As they collected the last few, Mitchell and Davies came across the green, laughing at Holmes and Trevor as they chased the papers. One larger sheet blew toward Davies and clung to his leg. He bent to peel it off of his trousers and held it out to Trevor, who trotted across the green to retrieve it.

When Trevor took the paper he gasped, and Holmes looked up sharply. Immediately Holmes saw what had caused Trevor’s surprise: as Davies extended his arm, the sleeve of his coat pulled away from his cuff, revealing a silver cufflink with a stone that glowed blood red in the bright sunlight. Davies looked at Trevor, puzzled, and Holmes hid a smile. He should have known that Trevor would not be skillful at dissembling.

“Davies!” Holmes called to distract attention away from Trevor’s gaping expression, but he should not have been concerned. Davies had no reason to be suspicious. “Thank you for catching my notes.”

Davies and Mitchell walked away, chuckling between them. 

“Holmes!” Mitchell shouted back. “Aren’t you afraid Trevor’s puppy might bite you again? I thought you were supposed to keep to your rooms!” His gait changed for a few steps, imitating an exaggerated limp, and Davies laughed.

Holmes did not respond. Already the wheels were turning in his mind. Trevor still stood on the grass by the walk, looking after Mitchell and Davies. When he turned to look at Holmes, his face still showed his extreme surprise.

“It can’t be Davies!” Trevor whispered.

“Why ever not?”

“He wouldn’t steal from Mitchell, and Mitchell’s tie pin was the first thing to go missing.”

“What makes you say that a thief would not steal from his friend? I think it’s very telling. When Turner’s watch was stolen, it was obvious that the man knew where to look. Davies knew where Mitchell’s pin would be, and he knew that it was valuable.”

“But Davies’ family is filthy rich!” Trevor objected.

“Perhaps his father has cut him off.”

Trevor’s only answer was a shake of his head. He thrust the handful of papers back at Holmes. Holmes tucked them back into his book. They settled back onto the grass, but their comfortable afternoon had been irretrievably disrupted.

Trevor was too good himself to understand the behaviour of the likes of Davies. Trevor would never gamble if he could not afford to lose, and would never imagine breaking the law. It was obvious, however, that what most upset Trevor was the idea of one friend betraying another. He could not fathom the possibility. Though Holmes thought that kind of faith in human nature naïve, he smiled fondly at Trevor. He would not change Trevor’s mind by pressing the point, and he rather thought a friend with a firm belief in such an airy principle was not a bad thing to have.

“Perhaps he did not set out to steal Mitchell’s pin,” Holmes offered. “Perhaps he simply saw it lying out somewhere and could not resist temptation when he was in such desperate need.”

Trevor seemed somewhat comforted by the theory.

*****

“You can imagine how quickly everything was resolved after that,” Holmes said to Watson. “I watched Davies for the next two days, and when he caught a train to London, I followed.”

“He went to a pawnbroker’s?”

“Indeed,” Holmes answered. “And I ran to fetch a constable. It wasn’t easy to convince him to come with me—I believe he thought I was playing a prank on a schoolmate, but he finally came long. Davies’ behaviour was so suspicious they brought him back to school to sort things out, so I dashed back to wake Trevor.”

Holmes had climbed in through Trevor’s window and coaxed him outside. They found a hidden vantage point and watched while Davies’ rooms were searched. Holmes could still remember the rush of elation he felt once it became clear that enough evidence had been found to justify an arrest. Trevor had wrapped an arm around Holmes, praised him, and marveled at his skill. Trevor’s amazement had indeed been gratifying, but even as a young man Holmes could see that Trevor was easily impressed.

When Watson had first come into that basement laboratory years ago, he had immediately reminded Holmes of Trevor. Not that there was any real physical resemblance, but rather something in Watson’s manner. He was trustworthy, staunch, sound. Somehow good. There was a certain solidness about him that had made Holmes feel simultaneously derisive and comforted—much as he had felt with Trevor. 

Watson was in fact very different from Trevor: he drank more than the occasional polite glass of claret, he gambled, he had a fiery temper when pressed and a wicked sense of humour, but he was also kind and more patient than Holmes would have believed possible. Watson was a more complicated man than Victor Trevor ever could have been, although he hid it well, and was considerably more perceptive and discerning as well; therefore his interest and surprise were infinitely more satisfying once earned.

So Holmes was not surprised that Watson offered no congratulations on the solution of this first, rather straightforward case. Indeed, Watson had most likely figured out the details long before Holmes explained them but had been content to listen to Holmes’ recitation just the same.

“It came to nothing, of course,” Holmes concluded. “Davies’ family was wealthy enough to grease all the proper wheels, and he never stood trial. He was expelled, but that was his only punishment.”

Holmes paused and considered how much more to tell. It took only a moment to decide that the thread of his tale would be complete without a description of his activities later in the evening. The thrill of Davies’ arrest had faded quickly, as well as the warm glow from Trevor’s admiration and amazement. Once Trevor retired, Holmes had not been able to settle his mind. He had returned to his own room and paced the floor, his thoughts wildly scattered.

Throwing himself onto the sofa, Holmes had stared up at the ceiling and been reminded of when last he had lounged in that very spot. Holmes had felt only minimal discomfort in his ankle and had not used any morphine since the night of his injury, but he clearly remembered the pleasant floating sensation the drug had induced. It had dulled the sharp edges of the world, quieting his mind. That night, after Davies’ arrest, Holmes had dug through the clutter on his desk until he found the bottle.

Holmes did not believe Watson should hear that part of the story.

“My routine returned to its quiet normalcy after that, the only change being that I had a companion at times. We would often dine together, or Trevor would spend the evening in my rooms.”

“Did you tutor him in French?”

“I did, yes.”

“He seems an odd choice of companion for you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He seems rather . . .” Watson hesitated before speaking his mind all in a rush. “Well, I may not be as clever as you are, but I’m a damn sight closer than this Trevor fellow.”

It was childish to be so delighted at Watson’s jealousy, and Holmes did not want him to think ill of Trevor—it was too much like him thinking ill of Holmes’ own past.

“Great intelligence may not have been one of Trevor’s attractions, I admit,” Holmes said. “But the fact that we were so very different wasn’t a hindrance to our friendship. He prevented me from becoming too focused on my solitary studies much in the way that you do now.”

“So,” Watson said in a low voice. “I’m a distraction?”

Holmes’ hand was halfway across the space between them before he stopped himself. Watson would not want comfort of that sort from him. It would be much better to clarify what he had meant.

“No, you misunderstand me, Watson.” Holmes wished he could make his manner less distant, make his tone less condescending. “You know very well how content I am to dwell completely inside my own head. Time and time again you’ve told me such a practice is unhealthy, and Trevor wouldn’t allow it any more than you do.”

*****

Holmes was in the laboratory heating a solution when Trevor burst in. Holmes started and singed his fingers in the flame.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Holmes asked as he examined his burnt finger. His tone was scolding, but he was surprisingly pleased to see Trevor. “Whenever you appear unexpectedly, I seem to suffer some kind of bodily harm.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to make certain you’re always expecting me,” Trevor teased.

Holmes looked up at Trevor and found him smiling, his eyes shining through the locks of hair that hung down over his forehead. The look on Trevor’s face gave Holmes the oddest feeling—it was not precisely nervousness, but a strange, quivery sensation in the pit of his stomach. He lifted his hand and flicked the hair out of Trevor’s eyes. “When are you going to get your hair cut?”

Trevor’s grin grew wider. “The next rainy, miserable day, I’ll march straight to the barber, but today…” He dragged Holmes by the arm over to the window. “Today is perhaps the most beautiful day we’ve seen yet this spring. You must come outside.” Holmes refused, despite his amusement at Trevor’s enthusiasm.

“Oh, come now.” Trevor’s hand, still on Holmes’ arm, gave a quick, squeezing tug. “Surely you can spare a few hours.”

“I put these experiments aside to work on the robberies, and I’ve only just started again. I—”

“Will they be ruined if you don’t continue this moment?” Trevor studied Holmes’ face.

“No, but—”

“Then put those things away and come with me!”

Holmes did not know how to answer. In the end, Trevor made the decision for him, threatening to pour several rather dangerous chemicals together just to hurry things along. Holmes knew that Trevor was merely teasing but allowed himself to be dragged out.

It seemed everyone at the college was out on the green enjoying the sunshine. An impromptu cricket game had caused a cheerful argument, and several of the students had brought their sweethearts out for a stroll on the thick green grass.

Trevor made a face at Holmes when they passed a couple gazing at each other with ridiculously adoring expressions, and Holmes stifled his laugh. They walked more quickly so as to be out of the couple’s hearing, then dissolved into laughter when they turned the corner. After giving Holmes’ shoulder a gentle shove, Trevor led the way to his rooms, where he picked up a lumpy satchel and threw it over one shoulder.

“And what have you got in there?” Holmes asked.

“Provisions,” Trevor said. “I want to go far away from this place and not have to worry about coming back for dinner.”

“Where are we going?”

It seemed he had no particular destination in mind, for they wandered without direction in the fields for hours until Trevor’s rumbling stomach prompted them to find a shady spot in an orchard for their picnic. They stole a few plums to supplement the bread, cheese, and cold beef that Trevor had brought. The fruit was not yet ripe, hard and sour, so after a bite or two they tossed them away.

“Holmes…” Trevor sat cross-legged on the ground. He had wolfed down every crumb of his share of the food and now was waiting for Holmes to finish.

“Yes?”

“Are you going to London during the long vacation?”

“Yes, I suppose I’ll stay with my brother,” Holmes said. He held out the remainder of his ill-constructed sandwich. “Will you have the rest?”

Trevor took the sandwich from Holmes’ hand. “So you’ll be there for the entire vacation?”

“Yes, what of it?”

“I thought perhaps you’d consider coming to Donnithorpe for a few weeks,” Trevor suggested. “My father wrote that I should invite a friend. He knows I get lonely there. Not that I’m only asking because he told me to.”

“Of course, I’ll come,” Holmes answered, hoping his quick acceptance did not make him seem overeager.

“Good.” Trevor fell back onto the grass and turned his face up into the sun. “Very good.”

By the time they returned to campus, it was full dark, and the laboratory would undoubtedly be locked for the night. Holmes had accomplished nothing. Though there had not been a quiet moment between them throughout the entire afternoon, he could not even recall what he and Trevor had talked about. He could not understand, then, why he did not feel as though his time had been wasted.

*****

When Holmes’ arrived at the station in Donnithorpe, Trevor was there to greet him, smiling and cheerful. He drove them to the house in a dogcart, along the way keeping up an entertaining narrative of favourite childhood haunts and pastimes. Before Holmes even settled into his room, Trevor was dragging him all about the house, showing him every room and introducing him to the housekeeper, Mrs. Greene, and to the butler, an odious little man called Collins, who leered incessantly as if he feared Holmes had come to filch the silver. Trevor paid Collins’ rudeness no mind.

Every day was spent in long walks in the countryside surrounding the house and strolling through the gardens talking about nothing in particular. One afternoon they had chosen a particular destination: Trevor wanted to show Holmes a favourite spot by the nearby river. He led Holmes outside by way of the kitchen, for he was hungry as always.

While Trevor searched for something to eat, Holmes noticed a series of wooden shelves along one wall. They caught his eye especially because they displayed a collection of glass bottles and jars, reminding him of a chemistry lab. Trevor noted that Holmes was curious about the crowded shelves and made a face.

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Greene is quite the apothecary, forever seeking out herbs and making ointments. She mends all the people from the village.” He turned to look at the matronly woman with a wicked gleam in his eye and said, “I think she’s a witch, what with all of those potions.”

“Mr. Victor!” Mrs. Greene said. Her tone was indignant, but she was not truly offended. It was clear she adored him and his teasing. Trevor’s behaviour made more sense now that Holmes saw him at home, where he was comfortable and cared for, if not spoiled. At school, Holmes had always thought Trevor’s manner was strangely confident and good-natured for someone who had been almost as friendless as he himself had been before they met.

Trevor leaned down to kiss Mrs. Green’s plump cheek. “How else could your cake be so devilishly good?”

“Go on!” She waved her dishtowel at Trevor. “Get yourself out from underfoot.”

Trevor dashed out the door to the garden, but not before grabbing the cake that he had cut. He handed Holmes one of the slices as they walked away from the house. Trevor managed to eat his own bit of cake as well as half of Holmes’ while talking without pause. They washed away their thirst with cool water from a farmer’s pump, and with only a few more minutes of walking came to the river, where Trevor threw himself upon the grass. Holmes sat cross-legged on the bank next to him.

“You’re bored here, aren’t you?” Trevor asked.

“On the contrary,” Holmes said, “I’ve never passed such a pleasant week in the country.”

Trevor squinted up at Holmes. “Do you mean that? Or has every other week you’ve spent in the country been horrid, so that—”

“Not at all,” Holmes laughed. “I assure you. I’ve enjoyed every moment.”

“Even dinner last night?” Trevor looked away and frowned. “I didn’t intend to put you on the spot. I told my father about your pet theories, but I don’t think he believed me. I thought if he saw for himself, he would understand how remarkable it is, the way you figure things out. I didn’t expect him to be so very shocked.”

“It was quite all right,” Holmes said. “I don’t blame him for being surprised. I only hope it didn’t do him a bad turn, being so overcome.”

“No, he’s far too sturdy for something like that to slow him down for long.”

Thinking of Mr. Trevor, in a dead faint at the dining room table, Holmes thought that “sturdy” might be rather too strong a word. Even after he came to and dismissed his lapse, Mr. Trevor had looked dreadful: pale and sweating. If Trevor was not concerned, however, Holmes would not dwell on the subject.

Trevor sat up, his knee bumping into Holmes’, and pulled a stalk of small yellow wildflowers out of the grass. He pulled them off the stem one by one, tossing them at Holmes. Holmes asked him to stop, but he smiled when he said it, so Trevor only grinned and threw another, then chuckled.

“It’s caught in your hair.”

Holmes reached up and raked his fingers through his hair several times, but Trevor was still smiling at him.

“Here,” Trevor said, pushing himself up to kneel. “Let me.”

The touch was so light Holmes could barely feel it. The flower fell onto his shirtfront, and Trevor reached to brush it off. He was gazing down at Holmes wearing the most peculiar expression. It made Holmes rather uncomfortable, but he found he could not avert his gaze. He was about to ask what the matter was when Trevor leaned close, tilted his head, and pressed his lips to the corner of Holmes’ mouth. When he withdrew, he eyed Holmes fearfully.

Holmes froze in shock, staring, watching the color drain out of Trevor’s face. After a nauseating moment, Trevor fled, leaving Holmes sitting on the grass, his heart rattling like a snare drum.

*****

As Holmes dressed for dinner, his shaking fingers making him clumsy, he could not imagine what he and Trevor would say to one another. Struggling with his wind-blown hair in the mirror, Holmes avoided looking at his own face in his reflection. He did not like what he saw there.

Holmes had never kissed anyone before Trevor’s awkward attempt by the river. It had always seemed a rather strange thing to do, and Holmes had never understood why it was so hotly sought after by other boys. Now, however, the mere thought of Trevor kissing him again caused an unusual fluttering to start in his stomach, and he felt warm all over his body. It was a more intense version of what he had experienced several times in the last few weeks of the school term, when Trevor teased him or smiled at him. Holmes felt foolish to only now recognize the feeling as the stirrings of lust.

But it was ludicrous to think that Trevor might consider Holmes in such a light. Trevor was so open and charming. He greeted the world with honest optimism, and where Holmes was too thin and dark, Trevor was strong and positively golden—they were ill-matched in every conceivable way.

Holmes knew there was no avoiding his fate any longer. He would already arrive downstairs late, and if he lingered he risked offending Mr. Trevor, who was a kind host. 

The moment Holmes entered the sitting room, Trevor jumped up from the sofa. His eyes studied Holmes’ face, and he chewed the inside of his lip. They could hear voices outside the door—Mr. Trevor would be with them at any moment.

“I’m sorry,” Trevor whispered. “I wasn’t—”

“I didn’t mind,” Holmes said. There was no time for anything more as Trevor’s father burst through the door and herded them into the dining room.

Dinner was a much quieter affair than on previous evenings. Mr. Trevor commented on the boys’ unwonted lack of conversation but seemed content to ramble on with little or no response from them. Once the meal was over, he tried to coax them into billiards or cards until finally their disinterest in any form of entertainment discouraged him. He excused himself and withdrew to his study.

Holmes sat frozen on his chair, gathering the courage to speak, but before he could, Trevor rushed from the room. Holmes wondered if he should follow but decided catching Trevor on the stairs or in the hall would be far from ideal. It would be far better to speak privately. After waiting ten minutes, Holmes slowly made his way upstairs and knocked on Trevor’s bedroom door.

Trevor opened it and peeked out. He was pale, and he did not look directly at Holmes.

“May I come in?” Holmes asked quietly.

Trevor nodded, his eyes still downcast. He stepped back, opening the door wide, and Holmes entered. Neither spoke until the door was closed, then both began to speak at the same moment. Holmes stopped and nodded at Trevor to continue.

“You truly didn’t mind?” Trevor whispered. A flush flooded over his face.

“No,” Holmes answered. “I truly didn’t.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind…” Trevor finally met Holmes’ gaze. “If I were to do it again?”

Unable to speak, Holmes shook his head, not taking his eyes off Trevor’s. Trevor closed his eyes and leaned toward Holmes. When Trevor’s mouth met his, it was not a quick, hard peck like earlier that day. Instead it was the barest of feather-light touches. Wanting more, Holmes tilted his chin and reached up to cup the back of Trevor’s head, sealing their mouths more firmly together.

Holmes could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, and he wondered why a kiss could have this effect. Such a simple gesture. It must be because the skin on one’s lips was very sensitive that this was so pleasurable. Trevor’s tongue slid against Holmes’ lower lip, and Holmes gasped, his legs feeling suddenly unstable. Then there was no more thinking, only wanting more of Trevor’s mouth on his.

Trevor’s hand touched Holmes’ side and moved about his waist, coming to rest on his back, just above the waistband of his trousers. Trevor pulled back a moment to study Holmes’ face. Holmes closed his eyes and sought Trevor’s mouth.

“Oh, Holmes,” Trevor whispered, and he lowered his head to kiss Holmes again. He moved slowly, his tongue exploring, and Holmes felt his cock start to thicken. He did not want Trevor to stop but was uncertain of Trevor’s reaction if he knew the level of his arousal. It made Holmes feel like an inexperienced, naïve boy, to be so affected. It hardly mattered that he was, indeed, both inexperienced and naïve—it was aggravating to be made so very aware of the fact. His anxiety did nothing to lessen his excitement, however, and when Trevor’s mouth slid down over Holmes’ jaw and onto his neck, licking at the tender skin under his ear, Holmes grew hard in mere moments.

Trevor wrapped his arm more tightly around Holmes’ waist and tried to press close. Holmes backed away, not wanting Trevor to come near enough to detect his state, but he had stepped only just over the threshold of the room, and when he retreated, his back bumped against the door. Trevor followed, pushing Holmes into the solid wood with his hands, chest, and hips. His thigh pressed between Holmes’ legs, and there was no way he could fail to notice Holmes’ arousal.

Holmes waited for Trevor to shove him away, disgusted. Instead, Trevor kissed him again, no longer gentle, and Holmes realised that Trevor was equally affected. Perhaps more so, if the insistent pressure against Holmes’ hip was any indication. Relief flooded through him, and he wrapped his arms around Trevor’s body.

Trevor moaned and canted his hips, rubbing his cock against Holmes’ through their clothes. The sensation left Holmes gasping: the friction on his sensitized skin and Trevor’s breath in his ear. But all too soon Trevor stopped and pulled away. Holmes tried to force out an objection, but he could not find his voice before he felt Trevor’s hand at the front of his trousers, tracing the length of his cock through the fabric.

Holmes pulled Trevor’s head close and kissed him. When Holmes released his mouth, Trevor said, “May I?”

Holmes could not help but laugh, a breathless, gasping sound. It was so formal, so ridiculous for Trevor to ask for permission when he had already begun, but Trevor surprised him. At Holmes’ nod, Trevor’s fingers began to tug at the trouser buttons. Unable to breathe, Holmes waited, already imagining how Trevor’s hand would feel against his bare skin.

Trevor slid his fingers down Holmes’ belly and inside his clothing. Holmes’ breath caught at the first touch, and when Trevor’s hand began to move, Holmes let out a whimper. Embarrassed at the noise, he buried his face in Trevor’s neck, but Trevor only wrapped one arm around Holmes more tightly and increased the pace of the other. The skin on Trevor’s hand felt warm, and his grip was strong, and it was not long before Holmes felt the pleasure drawing together, strengthening, ready to push him over the edge.

He panted out Trevor’s name, and he began to stroke even more quickly. Holmes cried out, and Trevor smothered the sound, plunging his tongue into Holmes’ mouth. Holmes wanted to push into Trevor’s hand, but he could not control his muscles. Even so, the sensation built in Holmes’ body, unrelenting. As it overtook him, rumbling through his body like a steam train, Trevor kissed him, again and again, then held him close as the last tremors faded.

Holmes feared his legs would give out, but Trevor’s arm stayed about him, supporting him. He struggled to catch his breath, and when Trevor kissed him again, he could not respond as he wanted to, feeling stupid and slow. Trevor moved his hand away and pressed his body close, pushing against Holmes’ thigh and hip. Holmes felt he ought to rouse himself, to make an effort in some way. His mind was still foggy, and Trevor was holding him so very tightly.

Before Holmes could gather his wits, Trevor was panting against his neck and thrusting urgently against his body. Holmes reached to wrap his arms around Trevor, and as he did so, Trevor’s entire form stilled and tensed, and he groaned quietly. It took Holmes a moment to understand that Trevor had climaxed, and the realization that it had happened with him doing so very little to bring it about made Holmes feel foolish.

“Oh, Holmes,” Trevor said. He bent his head, burying his face in Holmes’ neck and pressing a few kisses inside his collar. Trevor lifted his head and kissed Holmes’ lips then, although Holmes still felt too dazed to respond with any proper attention.

Too late, Holmes noted footsteps in the corridor, muffled by the carpeting. A knock sounded on the door directly behind his head, making both of them start. They sprang away from the door and each other.

A quiet voice came through the door. “Mr. Victor?”

It was Collins.

“Yes?” Even with that one-syllable answer, Trevor’s voice quavered.

Trevor was holding his hand away from his body in a most awkward manner. Holmes blushed to see the wetness coating Trevor’s fingers reflecting the candlelight. He fumbled to fasten his trousers as Trevor pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hand clean. 

“Your father has asked me to inform you that he will be fishing tomorrow before breakfast if you and your guest would like to join him.”

“Thank you,” Trevor said. His face was pale.

“Shall I tell Mr. Holmes?”

“N-no,” Trevor answered. “Thank you, Collins. I’ll speak to him myself.”

“Very good, Mr. Victor.”

Collins’ footsteps carried him away, and Trevor and Holmes stared at one another.

Trevor gave a weak smile. “Would you care for fishing tomorrow?”

“I… I cannot tell.”

The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock.

“Or would you rather sleep?”

“Yes, I…” Holmes groped for words. “Yes.”

Trevor smiled at Holmes’ confusion. He approached and wrapped his arms around Holmes. “Are you quite all right?”

Holmes nodded rather than answer. There was more noise in the hall.

“As much as I regret to say it, perhaps you should go back to your own room,” Trevor whispered.

Again Holmes nodded, then turned for the door.

“Holmes, wait. Please.”

Holmes stopped mid-stride, and Trevor came to stand in front of him. He placed one hand on either side of Holmes’ head, leaned close, and kissed him softly. Holmes’ heartbeat quickened.

“Goodnight, my dear Holmes.”

With one more nod and a deep, steadying breath, Holmes walked to the door, opening it a crack to peek out and make certain that the corridor was empty. Trevor closed the door after Holmes slipped out. It was only a few moments before Holmes was safely in his own room, snug in bed. His head was still spinning, and he thought he would never sleep for all the questions that raced through his mind, but he was exhausted. Before long, he was fast asleep.

*****

When Holmes awoke he felt both excitement and dread at the prospect of seeing Trevor at the breakfast table. He considered staying in bed to put off the awkward moment until he remembered that Mr. Trevor had planned a fishing excursion and would likely arrive very late at table. If Holmes dressed quickly, he might have a few minutes alone with Trevor.

Holmes leapt out of bed and threw on his clothes. When he emerged into the hall, he saw that Trevor’s bedroom door was ajar. He must have already made his way downstairs.

Holmes found Trevor already sitting at the table. There was a plate of food in front of him, but he had not touched it. His head was bowed, making him look thoughtful. When Holmes entered, Trevor looked up and smiled. Holmes’ heart felt instantly lighter, and he found himself returning Trevor’s smile.

“How are you this morning?” Trevor asked.

“Famished,” Holmes replied.

Trevor’s grin widened. “Come and have something to eat. Mrs. Greene has outdone herself.”

Holmes took a generous portion from each covered serving dish and sat down to Trevor’s left. He could feel Trevor’s eyes on him but looked only at his own breakfast. It had seemed an easier thing to smile at Trevor from across the room. Now that Holmes was sitting close enough to smell Trevor’s shaving soap, he felt a bit more awkward.

Trevor’s left hand crept across the table, and his fingers brushed over Holmes’ knuckles. Holmes gripped his fork more tightly and suppressed a shiver.

“Holmes?”

Finally Holmes forced himself to look at Trevor’s face, and the smile he saw there, perhaps not so broad as before but warm and genuine, put Holmes more at ease.

“I thought we might walk by the river again today,” Trevor said. He seemed a bit tentative himself, which further calmed Holmes’ anxiety.

“I’d like that,” Holmes said quietly.

“Wonderful!” Trevor’s smile brightened.

Mr. Trevor entered the room soon after, but it was no hardship to make polite conversation with him. By the time the meal was through and Holmes and Trevor were leaving the house, all felt nearly normal between them again.

“Come this way,” Trevor said, catching Holmes’ arm and giving it a tug. “There’s something I want to show you.”

He led the way to a section of the garden into which Holmes had not yet ventured. They followed the path around raised flower beds and hurdled a low shrubbery. There was a small wood circling the edge of the more formal part of the garden, and Holmes saw a charming summer house set among the trees.

“The old man built it for my sister,” Trevor explained.

Holmes looked at Trevor. “I had no idea—”

“She died,” Trevor said abruptly.

Holmes was struck speechless.

“Oh, Holmes, I am sorry. I don’t mean be rude, to you of all people. It was only a couple of years ago that it happened, and I…”

Trevor did not finish his sentence. Instead he stepped inside the little house, beckoning for Holmes to follow. The entry was framed with flowering vines, and as Holmes passed under them, he saw countless bees hovering among the blossoms, drawn by their heavy scent.

“My father would have had it torn down after she died, but I begged him to leave it,” Trevor said. “She loved it so.”

“It’s quite lovely.” Holmes knew his words were woefully inadequate, but Trevor did not seem bothered.

“She spent a lot of time here in warm weather. On rainy afternoons, I would come in and sit with her, and she would read to me, or tell me stories.”

Holmes put a hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “Trevor—”

Trevor cut off Holmes’ words with a kiss. He pulled Holmes close with both arms, but Holmes was all too aware of their proximity to the house. “Trevor,” Holmes gasped when they separated. “We mustn’t. Not here.”

Trevor whispered in Holmes ear, “No one ever comes here but me.”

But at that very moment the gardener’s boy ran along the path on the other side of the shrubbery. Trevor laughed and dashed out, ducking under the vines and tugging Holmes after him. They ran until they were at the riverbank, and Holmes sprawled on his back in the grass, his eyes closed against the bright sunshine flickering down through the branches over their heads.

“Holmes?”

Holmes answered with only a small hum.

“Holmes, have you…”

When Holmes spoke, his voice was a growl, but he was playacting. He felt much too contented to feel as impatient as he usually did at Trevor’s verbal tentativeness. “Trevor, what could you possibly have to say that—”

“Have you done this before?” Trevor blurted out. “With other boys, I mean.”

Holmes turned his head and opened his eyes. Trevor was lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows. He stared at his hands as he plucked blades of grass and tore them into tiny pieces.

“Holmes?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Trevor’s posture sagged in his relief. It was only natural for Holmes to want to ask the same question of Trevor in return, but he was not at all certain he would like the answer. His own ignorance of such matters weighed on him, and Trevor, so handsome, so easy in his manner, was sure to be much more experienced than himself.

“I have. Once. Well, more than once.” Trevor’s gaze darted to Holmes’ face nervously as he said this. “But with one boy. At school. He was a couple of years older. I thought…”

Trevor gave him a wan smile. “I thought that he was—Well, I was very foolish. I learned he was, well, like that… with a lot of other boys in my form as well, so I put an end to it. He was caught. Months later. Both of them were sent down. Perhaps it was lucky. It taught me to be cautious, and I haven’t done anything of the sort since then, and that’s the truth.”

Trevor looked intently at Holmes. It seemed important to him that Holmes understand the singularity of his p¬revious relationship. Holmes nodded. Trevor smiled then, and his face flushed.

“But as soon as I saw you I couldn’t…. I found you fascinating. Long before Wellington… You can imagine how horrified I was when he bit you. I wanted so very much to…”

Holmes was completely taken aback by the intensity of Trevor’s emotion.

“That night when Davies was arrested, when you climbed through my window, I thought…” Trevor blushed again. “I thought you had come for…”

Trevor stopped and looked at Holmes anxiously. It was impossible not to soften when faced with such uncertainty and devotion. After a wary glance in the direction of the house, Holmes leaned in to press a kiss to Trevor’s pink cheek.

“I wish I’d known,” Holmes said, low in Trevor’s ear. “I would have…”

Holmes could not think what he would have done if he had known. He was saved from any further speculation by Trevor pushing at his shoulder to make him turn, wrapping an arm around him, and kissing him deeply.

*****

A spate of wet weather put a stop to their long outdoor rambles, but Holmes was just as content to explore the house, which had all kinds of interesting nooks and corners, as well as a surprisingly impressive library. They passed several rainy afternoons quietly, Holmes, always mindful of the servants, good-naturedly fending off Trevor’s affectionate advances while he devoured page after page of countless volumes. And every night they would meet after the house had gone to sleep. After the first few rushed, furtive encounters, they grew more confident, spending hours learning one another’s bodies, then lounging together in the warm bedclothes.

“Holmes…”

Holmes sighed but looked at Trevor fondly. “How many times must I ask you to simply come out with it?”

Trevor turned away, and Holmes feared he had offended him.

“Trevor—”

“One moment.” Trevor slid out of bed and went to the chair in the corner. He drew a thick book out from under his dressing gown and brought it back with him. His face was beet red. He threw the book down on the bed and rushed to climb under the blankets, pulling them up against the chill.

As the book landed, it fell open to a random page. Holmes picked up the book to study the illustration and was shocked to find it displayed two naked men, one sitting on a chair while the other knelt between his widely spread legs, tongue teasing the tip of the seated man’s cock. The drawing was rather crude, but it was evocative all the same. Holmes felt a prickle of arousal—after all, not an hour before Trevor had knelt before him in almost the exact same pose—but stifled it to give his curiosity free rein.

“So this is where you gained your expertise,” Holmes teased, looking at Trevor from under his brows.

Trevor blushed and did not answer.

“Where on earth did it come from?”

“I found it in my uncle’s study.” Holmes craned his neck to keep the book in view as Trevor kissed below his ear. “Does he know you took it?”

Trevor sighed. Clearly he had something in mind other than an inquisition about the book, but he knew he would make no progress until Holmes’ curiosity was satisfied. “I don’t think so. But even if he did, he wouldn’t dare ask me about it. I’ll put it back when I next visit.”

The next page featured another scandalous picture, two men lying together on a bed, one clasping both of their erections in his fist, while a third looked on, his hand on his own cock and a gleeful smile on his face. Holmes turned to looked at Trevor, who was still flushed and embarrassed. He took the book from Holmes’ hands and fumbled through a few pages.

“Here,” he said, showing Holmes a drawing of two youths embracing. Although the picture was in black and white, it was clear that one boy’s hair was blond and the other’s dark. This drawing was done with more skill than the others, and there was an comparative innocence to it—although the figures were nude, they touched only where their lips met and their arms twined about each other’s necks. Holmes could see why Trevor found the image appealing. Holmes turned the page and found another picture, clearly by the same artist, of the same two young men lying on their sides, each with his cock in the other’s mouth.

Trevor whispered, “This is why I came to you.”

Holmes was flabbergasted. He knew well enough by now that Trevor had had a less than innocent interest in him from the beginning of their acquaintance, but to have it stated so frankly was rather outrageous.

“No! No, I didn’t mean—” Trevor wrapped his arms around Holmes. “I’m sorry. Of course I _did_ want—but what I meant was that I was desperate to know what the words meant. Everyone said you were a dab hand at French, and I thought you could help me.”

Only then did Holmes look at the text. He had been too stunned and absorbed by the pictures to take any notice of the print and had not realised that it was in French.

“And have you read it?”

“I tried,” Trevor said. “I couldn’t quite manage it.”

“I thought my tutoring did more good than that,” Holmes scolded.

“Well, a lot of these words weren’t in the dictionary!” Trevor flashed a grin as his hair flopped down into his eyes, then leaned close to whisper in Holmes’ ear. “Anyway, I think your tutoring did more harm than good… You, speaking French? And thinking of this book? Of those pictures? I was going mad from wanting you.”

Trevor turned Holmes’ head so that he could kiss his lips, then his hand ventured into Holmes’ lap. He sighed with satisfaction to find that Holmes’ cock was already hard. Holmes pushed the book away, willing to wait until later to examine it more closely, but after only a few strokes Trevor removed his hand and reached again for the book. Holmes made an impatient noise in protest.

“Please, Holmes,” Trevor whispered. “Be patient. There’s something in particular….”

He opened the book and flipped through its pages in a rush. Holmes’ heart began to pound. Trevor found the page he wanted, but instead of showing it to Holmes, he pulled the book against his chest.

“Now you must promise that you will say no if—”

“Trevor!” Holmes reached for the book, and his eyes eagerly sought the illustration, which was comical in its exaggeration: two men in profile, the smaller man on all fours, the larger man kneeling behind, his almost frighteningly large member impaling his partner, whose face was contorted in a caricature of ecstasy. Holmes let out of huff of surprise, and Trevor immediately snatched the book from his hands.

“Please,” Trevor said pushing away from Holmes. “Forget that I—”

“I did not say no.”

*****

Watson had grown preternaturally still at Holmes’ descriptions of the book’s illustrations.

“And did you…” Watson began, his voice gruff. “Grant his request?”

“I did.”

There was an ominous silence.

“It was an unmitigated disaster,” Holmes said.

He felt the tension in Watson’s body collapse at the words. He was clearly relieved, but had he been jealous of Trevor’s previous claim to this intimacy with Holmes? Comforted to know that it had not been successful? Or was he relieved to think that Holmes did not care for the act?

Watson finally turned toward Holmes, and he looked almost pleased, but when he saw Holmes’ face, he seemed to realise the unkindness of feeling any gratification regarding someone else’s disastrous first sexual experiences. His expression softened, and he reached out to put his hand on Holmes’ arm.

Holmes felt a surge of affection for him, finding comfort in the way that his thoughts and emotions were displayed so clearly on his face. Were his inner workings equally transparent to everyone? Or only to Holmes, who knew him so well and had the advantages of his profession? Or, best yet, perhaps Watson allowed himself to be so unguarded only with Holmes.

“Yes, yes, it was embarrassing at best and painful at worst,” Holmes explained. He felt Watson’s hand gently tighten on his arm in sympathy. “I would likely have gritted my teeth and carried on, too proud to admit that I was frightened and in pain, but Trevor was too perceptive. Once he saw that he was hurting me, he couldn’t forgive himself.”

Watson moved closer and rested his forehead on Holmes’ shoulder.

“But I was certain that men would not continually indulge in such acts if they weren’t pleasurable, and I was determined to look at it logically.”

“Logically?” Watson’s voice was muffled from being pressed against Holmes’ arm, but then he lifted his head. “Holmes, surely—”

“No, Watson, I know you see this as an affair of the heart, but logic was still the best means to solve my little problem,” Holmes said. “When Trevor fled from my room that night, he left the book behind. I hadn’t so much as glanced at the text, but once I was alone I began to read. There was wealth of information in those pages, and I immediately saw our mistake. We rushed ahead without any preparation whatsoever, and it requires time and great care if one is to enjoy such things.”

Watson froze again. He did not withdraw his hand, but it no longer squeezed Holmes’ arm affectionately. He was indeed made uncomfortable by the thought of that particular act. Holmes decided his only choice was to forge ahead: grit his teeth and carry on.

“I resolved that things would proceed more smoothly the next night, and obviously the best way to ensure success was with proper preparation. I crept out of my room, intent on finding something for lubrication.”

Watson started at Holmes’ bluntness. His hand slid away from Holmes’ forearm.

“I made my way to the kitchen and found Mrs. Greene’s bottles to be a veritable cornucopia of possibility. I spent a good hour weighing the merits of each of her oils and salves until I found the one that best suited my purposes.”

A sudden burst of laughter from Watson made Holmes stop. He was reassured by the sound, though there was nervousness it in as well as humour.

“Only you,” Watson said quietly, “would turn such a thing into a chemistry experiment.”

“I put some of the oil I’d chosen into an empty bottle and returned to my room. Trevor avoided me all the next day—not that I blame him. When he retired to bed early, I did the same. I took the bottle out of its hiding place, applied it liberally to the fingers of my right hand, and proceeded to prepare myself, opening my body as the book had described. I was shocked at the sensation. I had thought it would be merely a means to an end, but it was pleasurable in the extreme. I was sorely tempted to bring myself off then and there.”

Watson made a strangled sound, and for a moment Holmes that he had pushed too far, that Watson was sickened by these details, but a quick survey of his rapid breathing and his flushed cheeks reassured Holmes that Watson’s sensibilities were rather excited by the vivid details of his storytelling, and though he might be deeply embarrassed by his own excitement, he was far from disgusted.

“I went to Trevor’s room, and on that second night, we were much more successful.”

There was no reaction from Watson, and Holmes told himself it was unfair to expect any real response when Watson was so obviously conflicted.

“Many think that a man who allows his person to be penetrated in such a manner is somehow less than a man. That such an act denotes some kind of submission or weakness, but I can honestly assure you that I had never before felt stronger or more purely masculine. I had already discovered how very heady a feeling it was to pleasure another man with my mouth—to have such control of his sensations—and Trevor was even more in my power that night. And I was in control of my own pleasure as well.”

Watson was hiding his face by Holmes’ shoulder again, and Holmes did not want to speak too seriously of his encounters with Trevor, lending them more importance than he felt, so he introduced a bit of levity into his tone.

“You see, Trevor was reluctant to repeat our attempt—he was a gentle fellow and wouldn’t have purposefully hurt me for the world. But I coaxed him and finally convinced him by offering to straddle him as he lay on the bed, so that I would be able to stop if anything were painful for me. My position allowed me to lean in such a way that pressure was applied in precisely the spot where I wanted it. This was another very useful bit of knowledge from the book—there is a tiny gland… But of course you know this, Watson, with your medical background.”

“Yes, I—” Watson pressed his face more firmly into Holmes’ arm. “For God’s sake, Holmes. Please…”

Watson wanted him to say no more on the subject, and Holmes was tempted to abandon his story altogether. However much Watson tried to hide it, his arousal was painfully apparent, but Holmes did not want to take unfair advantage. He wanted Watson to come to him with a clear head, not with his judgment clouded by the demands of his body. Not to mention the fact that he wanted Watson to hear the conclusion of the story. So, without dwelling in any further detail on his physical relations with Trevor, Holmes continued.

*****

“Do you really have to go?” Trevor asked plaintively.

Holmes paused in his packing to answer. “I’m only leaving two days earlier than planned.”

“But I’d hoped I could convince you to stay for longer, now that—” Trevor broke off and flashed a wickedly lewd grin at Holmes. Trevor smiling in such a manner was a difficult thing to resist, but things had grown uncomfortable in the household since Mr. Trevor had inexplicably replaced the abhorrent Collins with the even more repulsive Hudson. Holmes knew there was more to the situation than met the eye—Trevor’s unwonted belligerence towards Hudson alone was troublesome, but any questioning on Holmes’ part led to evasive embarrassment on Trevor’s, so he had reluctantly left the mystery intact.

“You could accompany me to London,” Holmes suggested.

Trevor’s face lit up at the invitation. Holmes had fully expected a polite refusal, but Trevor’s enthusiasm and the prospect of his company for the long train ride easily convinced Holmes that it was a brilliant plan. Mr. Trevor seemed almost relieved that the two boys would be vacating the premises for a time, and Trevor gathered his things in a matter of minutes. They were dropped at the station that afternoon under dismal drizzling clouds, but once they boarded the train, the grey skies outside only served to make their warm compartment seem that much more snug by comparison. Holmes absorbed himself in a book while Trevor dozed on his shoulder.

The stations were more frequent as they neared the city, and the constant stop and start of the train shook Trevor from his nap. He yawned, looked at his watch, and stretched his legs across the compartment to prop them up on the facing seat.

“Holmes?”

“Hm.”

“Why on earth did you even take lodgings? I can’t picture you in a sordid little boarding house.”

Keeping his place with one finger, Holmes closed his book. “I object to your categorization of my rooms as sordid,” he said with mock severity. “They are perfectly respectable. Small, but adequate for my purposes.”

“Couldn’t you stay with your brother?” Trevor asked hopefully. He knew London well enough to be impressed with Mycroft’s address and would no doubt have preferred a visit there to Holmes’ very humble lodgings in Billingsgate.

“I imagine he would be amenable,” Holmes said. “However, I’m certain he would take issue with my not returning to school.”

Trevor sat up straight and stared at Holmes. “I beg your pardon?”

“There’s nothing for me there. If you were returning I might be tempted to go as well, but as you seem determined to stay and prevent Hudson from lording over the household, it may be some time before you can get away. I will stay in London.”

Brows knitted together, Trevor looked at Holmes with great concern, and Holmes laughed.

“Don’t upset yourself,” he said. “With you at home, I shall be closer in London than I would be at school.”

Trevor’s expression relaxed marginally, and he slouched back into his seat.

Holmes slipped his arm through Trevor’s. “I think you’ll approve of my lodgings once you see them.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. There is a refreshing lack of nosy servants.”

“What, no servants at all?”

“None,” Holmes said. “I hardly require much in that vein.”

“Yes, but—”

“And there is a rather large and comfortable bed.”

“Holmes!”

Laughing, Holmes leaned over and nipped at Trevor’s earlobe. “There’s no one to hear us, my dear,” he whispered, then chuckled at Trevor’s blush.

By the time the train reached their station, the drizzle had increased to a steady downpour, and even the short trips from platform to hansom, then from cab to front door were enough to soak both of them to the skin. As soon as they were safe in the privacy of Holmes’ rooms, they began to rid themselves of every wet, clinging article of clothing.

“I grant you,” Trevor said. “Your rooms aren’t as bad as I’d feared.”

Holmes did not answer.

“And you were truthful about the lack of servants,” Trevor continued as he pointedly removed a pile of papers from a chair so that he could sit to unlace his boots.

Quicker to shed his clothes, Holmes pulled on his dressing gown and went to the fireplace. “If you came only to complain about my housekeeping, you may take yourself directly back to the station. There’s an eight o’clock train—” Holmes broke off as he turned in time to see Trevor, now stark naked, sliding between the sheets of the bed.

Raising one eyebrow, Trevor smiled and beckoned.

“I’ll just see to the fire first,” Holmes said, feeling strangely bashful. Once he climbed into bed, however, and Trevor came close, Holmes relaxed into the comfort of the familiar body behind him.

*****

Watson cleared his throat, as if to speak, but then said nothing.

“It was a wonderful visit in some ways,” Holmes continued with forced cheerfulness. “Trevor wanted to forget his troubles at home, and I wanted to show him all of London. I dragged him to the opera and bought him oysters for supper, but all he wanted was to return my shabby little rooms. We did not get out of bed until it was time for him to leave.”

Watson turned away. Was jealousy making it difficult for him to listen? Might he be sad for this younger Holmes? For the story was clearly drawing to a close. It was even possible that he was growing bored—Holmes’ own interest in these events did not make them important, not by any standard.

“Trevor went home, and I was rather relieved to be able to absorb myself in my experiments. We exchanged letters, of course, but I found it a very unsatisfying correspondence. Then I got a message from him begging me to return to Norfolk. I went to him immediately. He had changed in the time I’d been away. He looked absolutely haggard, but that wasn’t the worst of it. He was angry and bitter. His father was dying, and he couldn’t understand what had happened.”

“Dying?” Watson said in surprise. “What on earth—”

“He’d gotten a peculiar letter. It had so upset him Trevor had feared the old man would run mad.”

“Did you see this letter?”

Holmes was so pleased to have drawn Watson out of his silence that he leapt up and went to the drawer where the letter in question was stored, not even thinking of his nakedness. He looked up from the paper in time to see Watson engaged in a perusal of his person.

When their eyes met, Watson bowed his head, flushing, and Holmes felt his own cheeks grow warm. He brought the paper back to the bed with him and pulled the sheet to his waist. He was struck by the incongruity of their situation: it was a conversation like many others they had had, the discussion of a case and its pertinent facts, but Holmes would never have thought to be talking over such things while in a state of complete undress.

Watson took the paper and skimmed its contents. “There’s a trick to reading it, I assume?”

“Every third word, beginning with the first.” Holmes gave Watson a moment to decode the message, then continued. “As soon as Hudson appeared on the doorstep, Mr. Trevor feared that his past would be revealed. He confessed everything in a letter to his son, but then hid it away, still hoping that poor Trevor would never have to know the truth. But the old man died while Trevor drove to meet me at the train.

“As a young man, Mr. Trevor had been convicted of embezzlement and saved himself from transportation only by joining with his fellow prisoners on the convict ship in a murderous uprising. He changed his name and made his fortune in the gold fields in Australia, then returned home, reformed, it seems, if not innocent. Hudson had been a seaman on the ship and threatened to reveal all. I have the letter he left for Trevor, and I will show it to you.”

Holmes could see the questions forming in Watson’s mind—this was exactly the sort of sensational tale that would capture his imagination, but for now Holmes could not allow him to be distracted.

“Trevor was heartbroken. He hated to think ill of anyone. To learn that his father had kept so much hidden was difficult for him to understand and forgive.”

Watson handed the letter back to Holmes. He looked thoughtful. “You left him, didn’t you? Because you didn’t save his father?”

“It wasn’t only that. Once his father died, Trevor was no longer the same carefree boy. He clung to me like a man drowning.”

Holmes remembered very clearly the precise moment when it all came to an end. Trevor was packing to leave at the end of a short visit, complaining that he was always the one to travel so that they could meet. “You could come to live at Donnithorpe,” Trevor had said. “You could let me take care of you. It isn’t necessary, all of this.” He had waved his hand, a gesture casually dismissing not only the room and its contents but the entire city. When Holmes politely refused, Trevor turned surly: “You don’t honestly believe you’ll be able to make some kind of living out of solving your little puzzles, do you?”

He had pretended to admire Holmes’ methods, but in truth he thought them little more than parlour games, an entertaining curiosity. That, more than anything, had made Holmes realise how very little they understood one another.

“I stopped answering his letters,” Holmes admitted. “He sent dozens before he came to London, lying in wait for me outside my rooms, but I did not allow him to see me. He even called on Mycroft. Good God, how I would love to know what they said to one another.”

“Does your brother know, then?”

“If he hadn’t known before, he certainly must have after seeing Trevor.” Holmes tried to infuse a hint of amusement into this remark but knew it fell short of the mark. “Mycroft told me I could have as many pretty boys as I liked but that when I ended it I must make it absolutely clear.” Holmes peeked out of the corner of his eye and saw that Watson was frowning. “He was right, of course. It was cruel not to confront Trevor, but I was a boy myself.”

Was Watson unhappy to think of Trevor, abandoned in such a vague manner? Was he perhaps imagining that he himself would face a similar fate? To Holmes, it was impossible. He could no sooner quit Watson than he could himself. What Watson was to Holmes—Trevor could not compare. Holmes reached out, unthinking, and laid a hand on Watson’s arm. His instinct, once he realised what he had done, was to snatch his hand away. He had restrained himself, refrained from contact for fear that Watson might be skittish, but rather than shrink away from Holmes’ touch, he shifted in the bed, moving closer.

Holmes had a flash of insight and cursed himself for his stupidity. The truth had been plainly evident in Watson’s behaviour the night before, and it had nothing to do with a lack of willingness to reciprocate such attentions: Holmes had been ready to fall to his knees, and Watson had denied him. But then Watson had undressed for him. And watched him carefully for his reaction. Watson had kissed him.

Watson wanted to see Holmes’ affection and desire—to honestly display the depth and intensity of his devotion would draw Watson in, not frighten him away. It was a promising theory, and Holmes set out to test it.

He slid his hand up Watson’s forearm. He had often longed to touch Watson in just such a way, his fingers wanting to explore the texture of the hair there. It was softer than he had imagined it would be, and underneath it Watson’s skin was so very warm. Then Holmes moved his hand down, sliding over Watson’s wrist, then weaving their fingers together. He dared a quick glance at Watson’s face—he was clearly surprised, but after a moment he turned his body, draping his leg over Holmes’, the arch of his foot curving over Holmes’ instep.

This was encouraging regarding Holmes’ theory, but it left him at something of a loss. Trevor had been overly demonstrative, almost puppy-like in his enthusiasm—Holmes had had to do nothing other than allow his attentions, and Trevor would wrap Holmes up in his long arms and smother him with kisses. It had been so uncomplicated. Since then Holmes had never sought out any physical contact that was not blatantly, deliberately sexual. He had never learnt this exchange of simple affection.

Holmes had thought that it was Watson who behaved differently in morning’s light, but truly, Watson was as steady as ever. It was Holmes who floundered. He had carefully carved himself up for so long: body divided from brain, and heart separate from both, ignored. Not since Trevor had friend and lover been one and the same, and from Trevor Holmes had learned the danger of looking to one person for everything. Holmes knew he could not bear it if Watson began to look on him with the disgust he himself had felt when weighted down by Trevor’s desperate dependence.

Watson was maddeningly quiet.

“The death of old Trevor was your real first case, you know. The nonsense with the student? That was mostly dumb luck, and it’s rather boring, really. I’m not going to write about that.”

Holmes almost laughed aloud at himself: Watson was not pondering the unflattering portrait Holmes had presented of himself: his first bumbling attempts at applying his methods or his less than kind treatment of a young man rather desperately devoted to him. On the contrary, Watson was already planning his next story for the Strand. Holmes willed his brain to leave off parsing Watson’s every gesture and remark.

“I did very little for old Trevor,” Holmes objected. “I neither prevented his death nor caught the man who caused it.”

“But you pieced it together. You used your methods successfully, and it’s certainly unique. His shadowy past? I think it will make for an interesting story.”

“You couldn’t possibly write about this case.”

“Certainly I can. I’ll omit certain details—”

“But that’s not the entire story,” Holmes insisted.

“At times, you worry entirely too much about the details.”

Watson slipped his arm around Holmes’ waist. The reassuring weight of Watson’s arm across his belly gave Holmes the courage to rest his palm on Watson’s back.

“You have a much better understanding of what fanciful tales will please your public.”

“ _Your_ public, you mean.”

“Not at all. This fellow Sherlock Holmes in the Strand is entirely your creation. He’s nothing at all like me.”

Watson was silent. Holmes feared he might have given offense and hurried to make himself understood. “I am not so unfeeling as you would have the world believe.” 

“I never thought—”

“An automaton? A calculating machine? A cold, unfeeling creature?” Holmes said. “Words from your own pen, my dear Watson.”

“Is that why you’ve told me all of this? To show me that you’re not unfeeling?”

Holmes wanted to object. At first he had related the story only to keep Watson from leaving the bed, but now he could not dismiss the idea.

“I never truly thought that. I simply never understood why you pretend to be so.” Watson propped himself up on his elbow to look down at Holmes. “It’s not necessary. Not with me.” 

Watson’s face was less than a foot from his own, yet the distance seemed vast to Holmes as he lifted his head for a kiss. When he fell back onto his pillow, he saw that Watson’s expression had softened, and all of a sudden it did not seem impossible that they could nurture this new, delicate thing between them and yet still maintain the easy, comfortable friendship they had had for so many years.

Holmes pulled Watson’s arm to make him lie down again, his head resting on Holmes’ shoulder.

When Watson next spoke, it was with an obvious, endearing effort to be cavalier. “You know that I don’t speak French…” He let out a small breath of embarrassed laughter and his arm tightened around Holmes’ waist. “But I admit it—that book has me intrigued.”

Holmes felt a surge of disbelief and hope and happiness. “You always did have appalling taste in literature.” He turned his head to press a kiss to Watson’s temple. “So you might care to learn the language?”

“I don’t think I did too badly last night,” Watson answered, then tucked his face into the crook of Holmes’ neck. “No,” Holmes answered, feeling breathless at the memory of Watson’s hands grasping at his hips and Watson’s mouth on his skin. He carded his fingers through Watson’s hair. “No, indeed.”

“And how lucky for me that you’re an experienced tutor.” There was a note of possessiveness in Watson’s voice, but it was playful, and Holmes found himself more than content to be possessed.

The End


End file.
